


Day 16

by galvelociraptor



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Drunkenness, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-05 18:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16372733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galvelociraptor/pseuds/galvelociraptor
Summary: Prompt: ¨i still have your phone number memorized even though i haven’t called you since we split and somehow i remembered it even though i’ve had like six shots of bourbon and hey, i know you’re pissed that you’re here at this dingy club at 3 in the morning to pick my drunk ass up, but you have to admit that’s pretty impressive¨ AU





	Day 16

Arthur fingered the slip of paper he had out on the bar in front of him.

10 digits.

The bartender caught his eye and cocked an eyebrow, wiggling the bottle she held in one hand.

Arthur nodded.

Moments later, another shot was sitting in front of him.

Arthur considered the shot, downed it, then tried to stand up on wobbly legs before he collapsed back on the barstool.

“You got somebody I can call?” The bartender had come back over.

Arthur squinted at her, mostly uncomprehending. She sighed.

“This the person to call?” She nodded at the paper in front of him. It was stained with drops of tequila and lime juice, and sprinkled with salt.

“Yeah,” Arthur said, forgetting why he never called that number, before zoning out.

The bartender dialed the 10 digits, then: “Hello? Hi, this is Sage from Labyrinth down on 5th? I have someone here who has your number, maybe you can come get him? According to his credit card, his name’s Arthur—”

*

A finger poked Arthur’s side.

“You alive in there?”

Arthur attempted to swat at the offending digit, before peeling his eyes open and peering up at the person standing beside him.

“Eames? What are you doing here?”

“The lovely Sage called me.” Eames winked at the bartender, who rolled her eyes.

“Why?”

“She said you were too sloshed, darling. Did you really drive here?”

“What?” Arthur asked muzzily, before the words penetrated his chemical-soaked brain. “No, of course not. I took a taxi.”

Eames caught Sage’s eye, who had came back over.

“Here’s something for your efforts, love.” He handed over the fifty he had been waving at her, then stood Arthur up and wrapped Arthur’s arm around his shoulder.

“Have a good night!” Eames called.

*

“Mmmpf.”

“Articulate as always, darling. But before you fall back asleep, I highly recommend drinking all of this water, or you’ll be feeling even more wretched in the morning.”

Arthur glared at him, but drank the water, which was exactly the way he liked it (sparkling, not still, with a wedge of lemon).

“Why…why are you helping me?”

“Arthur, we’ve known each other for 8 years now. I may not know exactly why you get sloshed like this exactly once a year, but I do remember the date. I just so happen to be in town, you just so happen to have my number…”

Arthur squinted up at Eames. He was at a loss for words.

“Thanks,” he finally muttered, before falling asleep again.

*

The hangover in the morning was almost as bad as Eames had predicted, although Arthur could admit, if only to himself, that the water the night before had definitely helped (a bit).

Pleased to find that he was still in his undergarments but that his slacks and button-down had been Febreze’d and hung in the bathroom, Arthur decided to put on his pants and then seek out Eames, who he suspected (maybe even hoped) was still in the apartment.

The whole place was very ‘Eames’, Arthur decided, after checking several doors and finding a) the linen closet, b) a art studio, and c) a bedroom. He didn’t think he’d seen a single neutral, excepting maybe the dusty white sheets. (The bed had been made with royal purple and a matching remnant quilt, probably made of sari silk.) 

The saffron-yellow walls and vibrant throws and floor pillows reminded him of his time in Morocco, but perhaps it was more accurate to Mombasa. (Arthur had only seen pictures of Mombasa, though it was on his bucket list.)

Arthur finally followed his nose and found Eames in the kitchen, where he was attempting to make…something. Whatever it was, it was blackened, smoking, and smelled awful.

“Eames? What the fuck is that?”

Eames turned around to grin at Arthur.

“Well, I was trying to make you some breakfast, but you can see how well that’s going…”

Arthur rolled his eyes, then asked, “You got any coffee?”

“Of course, darling.” Eames nodded at the Moka pot sitting on the side of the stove. Arthur was pleased to find that it was already filled with water and grounds, and only needed to be heated.

The mugs were displayed on a tree, and Arthur was unsurprised to see that none of them matched. He settled on one that had a simple design of ivy leaves painted on it, then leaned against the counter to watch whatever Eames was trying to do.

He was whistling, off-key, and was still attempting to cook the blackened thing in the frying pan.

“Eames! Would you stop already? I think you’ve scorched your spatula, too.” Arthur grumbled.

Eames grinned at Arthur again, before easily giving up control and space in front of the cooktop.

Arthur put the pan in the sink, then rooted around in the (mint-green) refrigerator, before pulling out milk, bread, butter, eggs, cheese, and mushrooms.

"Fried eggs on toast ok?” Arthur asked, a little timidly.

“Looks lovely, darling.” Eames said, smiling gently.

Arthur quickly fried up the mushrooms (in a new pan), then seasoned them with some of the herbs Eames had growing in the kitchen window. He had to pass very close to Eames to grab them, but instead of stepping back, Eames had just raised an eyebrow at Arthur, who felt his cheeks redden.

The smells of frying bread and eggs filled the kitchen, and Arthur covered the frying pan before stepping off to the side to drink some of his coffee.

“This is a nice apartment,” he started lamely, when it became clear that Eames was waiting for Arthur to speak.

“Where did you learn to cook, darling?”

“My grandma taught me some stuff, but most of it’s just living on your own. What the fuck do you eat, normally?”

“Single-ingredient meals, mostly. Also microwave meals.”

Arthur stared at him. “How are you still alive, and not dead of scurvy?” 

Eames continued to smile at him.

The food had finished cooking, so Arthur ignored the smile, plated the food and brought it to the table.

Eames’ mysterious cup of tea had miraculously reappeared, and Arthur brought over his coffee.

They sat down across from each other, staring down the table at one another, before Eames started giggling.

“What?” Arthur said, feeling a little hurt.

“I feel like I’m in Beauty and the Beast,” Eames said, still sniggering.

“Which am I?” Arthur said, a little scared to hear the answer.

“Don’t be daft, darling.” Eames said, eyes twinkling.

“Are you keeping me locked up?”

“Lord no, we’re low on coffee and I know how you get when you don’t have it.”

“We?”

“Sorry,” Eames said, suddenly sounding small, the laughter gone from his voice.

“No, I—I liked it,” Arthur admitted shyly.

Eames stared at him.

“I was carrying around your number.” Arthur pointed out. “That’s part of the reason I got so drunk this year. I was thinking about calling.”

“Really?”

Arthur nodded, looking down at the napkin in his lap.

“Well then,” Eames said, and Arthur could hear his chair being pushed away from the table.

“Let _us_ go shopping,” Eames said, dropping a kiss on the back of Arthur’s head.

Arthur smiled up at him.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Let’s."

**Author's Note:**

> One of the days of fic from my NaNotWriMo 2016. (I called it NaNOTWriMo because I had no intention of writing 50K, and indeed I didn't.)


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